by Bo Caldwell
The next morning Edward spoke at our church. What God asked of us, he said, was nothing less than absolute surrender. “The Gospel tells us this clearly: ‘Whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.’ The question we must ask ourselves is, What are we holding back? What is it that we will not give up?”
I felt found out, as thoroughly convicted as if Edward had addressed me by name. Something tightened in my center, a tense feeling that stayed with me the rest of the day, and at dinner that night I did not speak. My mother asked if I was ill and whether I wanted to leave the table. A part of me did, but I stayed where I was.
I was sitting next to Edward, who seemed to single me out from my siblings. He asked me kindly about school and farming and my baptism, and he said he could see that I loved God and that my faith would bless me all my life. I said no more than what was required, not because I disliked Edward but because I was so drawn to him. He was tall and thin and awkward and not handsome—unexceptional, like me, I thought—but when he spoke of China, I could not look away.
He talked of Keng-Tze Nien, the Boxer Year six years earlier when thousands of Chinese Christians and 186 missionaries and their children had been murdered for following Christ by members of the secret Society of Righteous Harmonious Fists. But Christ’s message would not be stopped, Edward said; the people’s needs were too immense. They suffered from ignorance about hygiene and lack of medical care. Many infants died at birth, and fewer than half of those who lived survived to their first birthday. Mothers fed their children rat feces to cure them of stomach ailments, men applied the bile from the gallbladders of bears to heal their children’s eyes, and opium addicts and beggars slept in the streets.
Yet Edward made no capital of what he had seen. “The suffering is great, as is the need for help, physical and spiritual.” He paused, and his expression softened. “But the rewards are also great. The people are the kindest and most generous I have known. They are wise in many ways, and there is much to learn from them and to admire. They have the right to hear the Gospel.”
Toward the end of the meal, Edward turned to me. “I return to China in a few weeks. My wife is there, caring for our children and carrying on our work. We need helpers, for the harvest is great, the laborers few. Why don’t you come with me, Will? The Chinese language is difficult, but far easier when you are young. Perhaps this is your calling.”
I saw my siblings trying to stifle their laughter. Of all our family, I was the least likely to leave. I wasn’t good at speaking in front of people; I became nervous and I stammered. I was quiet and shy, I wasn’t a good student, and I disliked being away from home.
“I’m needed here,” I said, my voice cracking. “I haven’t any training or gifts of that kind.”
Edward said, “The Giver of those gifts may feel otherwise,” and he looked at me, his blue eyes bright. “A torch’s one qualification is that it be fitted to the master’s hand. God’s chosen are often not talented or wise or gifted as the world judges. Our Lord sees what is inside”—Edward touched his chest—“and that is why He calls whom He does.” Then he turned to my father and they began to talk about wheat.
In the morning Edward left to visit other churches; he would return in a week. During those days I struggled, for while I felt pulled toward Edward’s work, the idea seemed too foolish to even consider. I couldn’t imagine leaving home; I suspected I was unfit for anything but farming, and I thought surely God would want me to remain where I had been planted. I decided I was being proud to think I might be remotely capable of meeting the challenges that must face a man like Edward every day, for in the few years that had passed since I joined the church, I did not feel I had made much progress spiritually. I yearned to walk more closely with God, and while I did experience moments of joy, they were often followed by days of despair. I told myself that surely God would not ask me to do work that was so clearly beyond me, and I fervently prayed that China was not my calling.
The night before Edward was to return, I woke suddenly in the night. When I couldn’t fall back to sleep, I crept out of bed and down the ladder that led from the attic bedroom I shared with my brothers. I sat down at the table my father had made from the elm trees that edged our land, and for a while I just listened to the nighttime sounds of our home—the even rhythm of my father’s snoring in the next room, the soft rush of the wind outside, the neat ticking of the kitchen clock—sounds as familiar as my own heartbeat.
As I sat there, I suddenly knew I would go to China. The realization was as simple and definite as the plunk of a small stone in the deep well of my soul, and despite the fact that it would mean leaving what I loved most in the world, I felt not the sadness and dread I had expected but a sense of freedom and release. The tightness in me loosened like cut cord, and I was joyful.
The next morning I stood nervously in our kitchen, my hands gripping the rough wood that framed the door, as I waited to tell my father of my decision. I was worried about his reaction; I expected disappointment and anger and dreaded them equally. I had not disobeyed my parents since I was a small boy, and the thought that God might ask me to do so now made my heart clench.
I saw my father coming toward me from the chicken house. He had barely entered the yard before I hurried to meet him.
“I have something to tell you,” I said. “I feel that God is calling me to serve Him in China. I know it makes no sense; I know I’m unqualified and I’m needed here and my decision must seem all wrong to you. But yes seems the only answer I can give.”
I had braced myself for my father’s objections, but none came. He stared at me without speaking for a long moment; then he put his arms around me and embraced me tightly. “Will,” he said, “you have chosen the better part. How could I refuse you?”
Edward was to leave for Seattle from his family’s home in French Creek near Hillsboro, Kansas, in two weeks. My parents went with me to the farewell meeting, which was held at the home of fellow Mennonites, where, with the friends and relatives who were able to join us, Edward, myself, and three other recruits sat outside at rough tables and benches under shade trees while Edward read Scripture and prayed for us and led us in the four-part singing of a few hymns. A few of the group gave their testimonies; then we shared a fellowship meal, and our families and friends wished us well.
At the end of the meeting, my mother took me aside. “Will, do you have money to travel?”
I felt instantly foolish and ashamed, for I hadn’t even thought about money; I had somehow thought Edward would take care of it. Out of pride and embarrassment, I said, “I hadn’t worked it out. Edward invited me. He’ll pay the bills.”
My mother shook her head. “Here,” she said, and she took my hand and pressed a roll of bills into it, more money than I had ever seen. She smiled at my amazement. “It’s my inheritance from my parents, two hundred dollars. Edward says it will cover the train to Seattle and the steamship across the ocean.” She held me close for moment. Then she said, “My sweet boy—I will miss you more than you know.”
At the railway station, my parents and I stood together awkwardly. When it was time to board, my heart pounded and I suddenly wanted to change my mind; it seemed that doing something right shouldn’t hurt so much. But the conductor called out and waved his small flag, and I knew I had to go.
I embraced my mother and father a last time. None of us could speak. I walked to the train and climbed aboard, then hurried back to the last car and watched my parents until I could no longer make them out in the distance; even my father waving his broad-brimmed felt hat was gone. I worked at committing this last sight of them to memory, so I could call it up at will, and I tried to console myself with the idea that I would return in five years. But it did not ease the ache in my chest.
My mother had never sent me off anywhere without food, and this departure was no exception. Packed in a small basket were homemade sausage and biscuits, apples from our orchard, spice ca
ke, and tea, all of which I shared with Edward and the three other recruits, whom I found intimidating, for at twenty-one I knew I was the youngest and least experienced. Jacob and Agnes Schmidt were a married couple who had met at the Salvation Army, and Ruth Ehren was a deaconess, which meant, Edward explained, that she had completed a two-year nurse’s training program at an orphanage and hospital in Berne, Indiana, so that she could devote herself to the care of the poor and sick. The long black dress and black bonnet she wore signified her training and position. A fourth recruit, another deaconess, would join us in Seattle.
After three days on the train we reached Seattle, where we would spend our last night in America with friends of Edward’s. At the railway station Edward asked me to stay with the luggage while he took the others to our hosts’ home. While I was sitting on the trunks, a young woman passed by. She wore the same type of black dress and bonnet that Ruth did, and when Edward returned for me, he brought this young woman with him and introduced her as Katherine Friesen, from the Deaconess Hospital in Cleveland. “She’s also my wife’s sister,” Edward added, and I heard the pride in his voice. She smiled fondly at him but seemed to ignore me, which was fine by me, for I could not speak. Although slight, she was so sure of herself and so imposing in her black dress that I was in awe of her from the start.
October 3, 1906
I am far away from home tonight, the farthest I have ever been, sitting in the comfortable parlor in the home of strangers in a rainy city I do not know on the edge of this continent. Tomorrow at this time I will be even farther away, miles out to sea—I, Katherine Friesen, who have spent my life in the middle of this country with not so much as a glimpse of the ocean, will be in the middle of it! I have surprised myself this evening, for while I thought I would be anxious or afraid, I am neither. Although I love my family and will miss them, and although I have no idea what to expect of the days, weeks, and months ahead, here is my secret: I am happy. My heart beats strangely; I feel more like I am returning home than leaving it.
These giddy feelings seem wrong. Shouldn’t a good daughter, a good sister, a good deaconess, be ambivalent about leaving home? But I’m not, which amazes me. I’m amazed that I’ve made it to Seattle, amazed at my good health, amazed that one obstacle after another concerning money and the details of the journey has been overcome. Here I am, sitting at this cherrywood table by a warm fire, “en route to the Far East,” as our hosts put it; how glamorous it sounds!
The other recruits don’t seem to share my high spirits; they already look homesick. The married couple appears to be aware only of each other; I haven’t seen them more than two feet apart all evening. Young love, I suppose. Ruth Ehren, the other deaconess, is as somber as if our journey were a punishment. She’s what people often envision when they hear the word missionary—a serious soul who travels to faraway lands to turn heathens into Westerners. I don’t understand her; being morose seems like such a loss.
Then there is Will Kiehn, who strikes me as awkward and dreamy, but Edward certainly sees something in him; his strong encouragement is the reason Will is going to China. I can see that Edward loves this clumsy boy, for he already favors him every chance he gets; tonight at dinner he passed Will extra crescent rolls (the boy seemed ravenous—I kept wanting to ask if anyone had been feeding him) and afterward he made sure Will wrote a letter to his parents. Edward says Will reminds him of his younger self, that when he talked to Will about China, Will’s expression of wonder mirrored his own feelings when he was starting out. That’s how I felt too when I began to sense the idea of China in my soul, a kind of irrational certainty that I would go, even though it made no sense. Edward says that when Will told him of his decision to go with him to China he felt a bounce of joy inside; he was certain he’d met a like-minded soul. This is high praise, for while my brother-in-law can be impetuous and unorthodox in his ways, he is as wise as he is kind, which makes me believe there must be more to this Will than I see. Perhaps he isn’t as bothersome as he seems.
Edward’s excitement is a dramatic contrast to the somber mood of the others. His eyes are bright as he talks of leaving in the morning, and I see the energy in his step and his movements, as though this tidy home in which we are guests constrains him. Of course he really is returning home—to Naomi and the boys and the new baby, all of whom I’m eager to see—so there is reason for his joy. But I think it is more than a homecoming. He is excited about the work.
As am I. I have no idea what this life will be like, nor can I guess whether I’ll be gone for five years or fifty. I know only that I am happy—in my heart and mind and soul and even my body, which feels strong and sturdy and healthy. I’m weary too, but I don’t mind the fatigue; I am on my way to China, and that is enough.
Early the next morning we left for the Seattle docks and for the S.S. Minnesota, which was to depart shortly before noon. Edward settled us on board then went to secondhand stores to purchase a few last supplies he knew he couldn’t get in China. Noon came and he hadn’t returned, a problem because he had the tickets. The whistle blew once, then a second time, and finally Edward came charging up the gangplank, awkwardly carrying a load of folding chairs he’d bought at what he excitedly said was a most reasonable price.
The thick ropes tethering the ship to the dock were untied and we were under way. I stayed on deck, and in my mind I said goodbye to my family once again as I watched Seattle and America recede.
Edward joined me, and for a while we were silent. Then he said, “Perhaps it’s time to learn your first Mandarin phrase.”
I was immediately anxious; I did not feel at all up to tackling a new language. But when he spoke again, I was so drawn to the sound of what he said that I couldn’t help asking its meaning.
He smiled and repeated it. “Tsaichien mei-kuo,” he said. “Tsaichien is goodbye, mei is beautiful, kuo is country. That’s the name for America: Beautiful Country.”
I tried to repeat it. Then I asked him the word for China.
“Chung-Kuo,” he said. “It means Middle Kingdom, because of the people’s ancient belief that their country was at the center of a vast square earth, surrounded by the Four Seas, beyond which lay islands inhabited by barbarians. That’s us.” Edward turned and faced the front of the ship, and the expanse of ocean spread before us, so that America was behind us. “The strange part,” he said softly, “is that after you’ve been there for a while, it truly does feel like the center of the world. It becomes a place you never want to leave.”
I nodded, willing to be convinced. For at that moment, despite the homesickness that had accompanied me like a stowaway since I’d left home, I had a dim hope that, given time, I might come to feel the same.
The Journey Inland
1906
We were at sea for thirty-one days, most of which we spent in dank, unfurnished, third-class cabins that had been recently painted with inferior green paint and still smelled strongly of the stuff. As our rooms were in the ship’s hold we felt its every move, an experience that took some getting used to for people who had never before been at sea, much less crossed an ocean. Once a day we met to pray and sing a few hymns, but none of us spoke more than necessary. We were always cold, and the sea’s roughness sent our belongings sliding back and forth across the floor so much that we gave up putting them back.
We all felt ill, but Katherine seemed to fare the worst. When I mentioned this to Edward, he said she had had health problems from childhood and suffered from headaches the doctors could neither diagnose nor cure. But Katherine’s belief that God had called her to serve in China did not waver, even as the intensity of her headaches increased. “She may be weak physically,” he said, and I heard the affection in his voice, “but it does not hinder her devotion. She has made it her ambition to please God and believes that, if she dedicates herself to Him fully, He will take care of her.”
During the day I sat in my small airless cabin and worked at learning Chinese. In the written language, each character had
as its origin a picture, with simple characters combined to convey more complex meanings. The character for wife was a woman with a broom, good was a woman and child, prisoner was a man in a box, worship was a man kneeling. The written language was the same throughout China, but the spoken language varied dramatically by region and was much more difficult. The dialect I was learning was kuan-hua, or Mandarin, called the standard language and spoken north of the Yangtze River. It used four tones; some dialects had as many as seven. The first tone was even and flat, the second slightly rising like a question, the third falling and rising, and the fourth falling. A character’s tone changed what it meant, so the same word could have four entirely different meanings, depending on its tone. Ma could mean mother, horse, scold, or hemp, each represented by a different character.
Each day I studied three hours in the morning and three hours in the afternoon. I loved the language from the start, and my only complaint was that I could not learn it faster; I wanted to master its strokes and tones and unfamiliar sounds immediately. I had never been much of a student before, but I became one on that voyage. Immersing myself in this strange new language quickly became my solace.
We reached Shanghai on November third and spent our first two hours on Chinese soil following Edward through the tedious chaos of customs. When we emerged, grimy and fatigued, we found ourselves on a wide boulevard crowded with harried pedestrians and rickshaws. Edward hired rickshaws to take us to Schaftsberry House, an inexpensive boardinghouse used frequently by missionaries, and when he had settled us there he brought us Chinese clothes to wear. Six years had passed since the Boxer trouble, but there was still hostility toward foreigners; recently in Nanchang a woman medical missionary who had not adopted Chinese dress had been surrounded by a mob and forced to take refuge in a patient’s home. The next morning, Katherine, Ruth, and Agnes put on long loose padded cotton jackets over their dresses, and the men dressed like poor schoolteachers: Chinese trousers, long gray padded gowns, and cotton shoes with thick felt soles.
